Edith took up her seat by the window and Sorina sat beside her. In silence they watched Una plodding through the snow to her father’s house. Edith could almost see her emitting lightning flashes of indignant rage. The butcher obviously had not wanted to hear what she had to say as a few minutes later she was trudging in the opposite direction.

When Sorina was certain that her mother had gone home, she whispered to Edith, ‘Grandpa has your boots.’

By mid-morning, a purpose of sorts had taken hold.

‘If your grandmother was here, Edith, she’d tell us a story,’ said Vanda.

‘If her grandmother was here none of this would be happening,’ said Flora.

The women were surprised when the door opened and Georgeta, the mayor’s wife, stood there, tall and awkward. The room went quiet.

‘I’ve brought food and wine,’ she said to Edith who went to greet her. ‘A wedding gift.’ She clumsily put her basket on the table.

Edith wondered what the mayor’s wife could possibly want. The basket of food struck her as an excuse rather than a present.

‘Your grandmother was a good friend to me,’ she said to Edith.

Still, no one had said a word. Georgeta’s white face blushed, and Edith knew what she was thinking – that she shouldn’t have come, that she was too tall, she was out of place and the only woman there not wearing traditional clothes. Edith indicated the rocking chair by the fire. Georgeta perched on the edge of the seat, and everyone waited for her to speak.

‘Last night,’ she said, ‘I dreamed of Edith’s grandmother and a story she told, but I can’t remember the ending.’ Then, seeing all the faces staring at her, she stood. ‘This is most insensitive of me. I’ll go. I’m sorry to have interrupted your work. This is not the moment for stories… ridiculous, it was a…’ and more to herself, she said, ‘…a foolish, foolish…’

‘I was just saying that a story is what we’re missing,’ said Vanda.

‘Oh no,’ said Georgeta, ‘I’m no storyteller. I’m not even sure how to start it.’

‘Start it like Edith’s grandmother used to,’ said Lena. ‘It was what once took place…’ She paused.

Georgeta took a deep breath. ‘…And if it had never been, it would not be told.’

‘Louder,’ Vanda said. ‘We all want to hear.’

The snow badgered the windows as Georgeta started again, her words finding courage. ‘Once, when the bloodless were as common as blades of grass and the world of otherness was known to man, there lived a wizard, wise, wiser beyond the spinning of the world, who travelled great distances and called himself a shepherd of man.’ She stopped. ‘Do you remember this story, Edith?’

Edith shook her head.

‘Go on,’ said Vanda. ‘We’re all listening.’